


Watching

by HouseofTheBear



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Erotica, F/M, Oral Sex, Passionate Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2019-09-15
Packaged: 2020-11-02 06:11:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20648603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HouseofTheBear/pseuds/HouseofTheBear
Summary: Jorah witnesses something he probably shouldn't have seen.





	Watching

**Author's Note:**

> This addition to the Garden is actually a deleted scene from The Protector. It takes place after Christmas in the story but can be read as a one-off.
> 
> Many thanks to @chryssadirewolf for the amazing art collage seen below (it's gorgeous!). And to @clarasimone, who encourages, reads (and sometimes re-reads) my work, and always provides the best inspiration. My partner in crime...merci ;)

The evening had been lovely, full of delicious, rich food, engrossing conversation, and a little flirting. Mostly on Daenerys’ part. Jorah didn’t want to admit it, but he knew his talents at seduction were probably quite rusty, though he could still recognize when a woman was trying to chat him up. And Daenerys definitely was. He tried a few times, said some simple, honest things. And apparently, he still had it. She blushed prettily at his compliments, her dimples on full display. Their banter was playful and _safe_ because Jorah knew it would never go anywhere. At least on his part. He wouldn’t cross that line…again. They had kissed once, but at Daenerys’ instigation. And as much as his heart, and now recently his body, desired her, he knew he couldn’t. His ethics wouldn’t allow him. He respected his job, not to mention Daenerys, very much. Yet, alone with his thoughts, he would let them drift, imaging her in his bed, in his arms. His fantasies of her were quite ‘vanilla’, a term most men would use to describe them, but that suited him just fine. He had no desire to hurt her or degrade her, to make her feel less than the amazing woman she was. He wanted to worship her, make her feel like she meant the world to him. Because she did. She already had his heart, as much as he had tried to fight it. In his late-night visions, he belonged to her, his body hers to explore and use as she wished. She was a fiery woman in his bed or at least he thought she would be. He knew a passionate woman resided in her, but it had been stifled by her previous partners. He would never tell her, but he had overheard part of a conversation she had with Missandei and she seemed quite disappointed with Daario’s performance. How could that man have not spent at least an hour awakening her desire, allowing it to bloom slowly like a flower beneath the sun’s rays, and only when she was writhing in her impatience, would he not give her what she needed? Jorah had patience to spare, and in his mind, he always took his time showing her just how good it could feel.

And now, sitting across from her at the table in the nearly empty restaurant, watching her gather the last of the crème brûlée from the ramekin with a swipe of her finger, her full, red lips wrapping around it, her eyelids drifting shut in enjoyment, a soft moan sounding in her throat, Jorah has to suppress one of his own, his trousers suddenly feeling a bit tighter. He shifts stealthily before her eyes open, a pleasant look on his face. He can’t let her see any outward sign that something so simple has affected him. The cheque can’t arrive soon enough, and once they pay, he leads her to the car, a bit eager to get home. The drive passes quickly, and once they arrive there, they part ways in the foyer with a smile and ‘good night’, as they always do. Jorah goes to the kitchen for a glass of water, but not before he watches her walk down the hallway to her room, the gentle sway of her hips enticing him once more. She had looked stunning in her dress, a little black one that hugged all of her curves perfectly and gave him just the barest glimpse of her cleavage. He had tried not to stare earlier when she had met him in the foyer, but her little smile had told him he had failed miserably. He had wondered for a fleeting moment if she had done it on purpose, to get a rise out of him. Daenerys didn’t seem like the type, but by the gods, did she ever get a _rise_ from him nonetheless. Finishing his drink, he makes his way to his room, lost in a daze of black dresses and enchanting violet eyes. A shaft of soft light spilling into the darkened corridor has him stopping in his tracks, the door to her room slightly ajar. His own had not fully closed a few times before, something to do with the plush carpeting. Perhaps it is the same with hers and he slowly, quietly, walks over, intending to stand by the doorframe and call in to her and let her know. But his feet don’t listen to his brain and he finds himself peering into her room and what he sees takes his breath away. Daenerys is seated at her dressing table, arms raised, undoing her elaborate hairstyle…in nothing but her brassiere and panties.

_Gods, walk away now._ But his body is frozen, unable to heed his warning. Watching her is hypnotizing, the nimble play of her fingers pulling the pins free, she appears almost ethereal in the soft, warm light issuing from the mirror’s border. Her tresses tumble down her back to brush her bottom, his hands itching to bury themselves in it, to feel its silkiness, knowing instinctively its only rival will be her skin. She reaches for a makeup towelette and starts to wipe away the little makeup she had been wearing, which he knows only enhances what is already there, then tosses it in the bin. Daenerys stands and Jorah has to clench his jaw to keep from making any sound at the sight of her supple bottom in those tanga panties. He doesn’t know how he knows the name of the style, but he does and it’s as if it’s made solely with her figure in mind. The lilac lace compliments her skin perfectly, the subtle pattern appears to be floral, although he isn’t completely sure at this distance. But he is sure that he sees the faint shadow of the cleft dividing the two luscious cheeks and he pictures himself grasping her there and lifting her onto the vanity to ravish her. Only now is he aware of the heavy weight between his legs, his cock aching for attention. He knows he should leave now, that to be caught by her will damage everything between them, their friendship and her trust in him. And yet, even as he knows this, he still can’t move. Every pound of his heart is like a bass drum in his ears and he swears Daenerys will hear it, not to mention him, at any moment, the echo of each beat throbbing in his erection. She leans forward suddenly, as if she sees something in the reflection, fear gripping him tight. But it is only something on her cheek and she brushes it away. The horror at being caught vanishes and desire takes over again. The position she’s in, slightly bent over, shows off her curves and the shapeliness of her legs, his thoughts turning more lustful than he has ever allowed them. He sees himself making love to her that way, his thrusts slow and deep, watching her eyes in the mirror. He mentally shakes himself, _no, not like that, not unless she would ever ask me to._ He misses something because now she is standing again, her hands reaching behind to unhook her brassiere. The lacy garment in the same hue as her panties falls to the floor, the gorgeous, pale expanse of her back just begs for teasing kisses and gentle caresses. He notes the dimples on either side of her spine, just at the top of her panties, the _Venus Dimples._ No woman Jorah has ever known had them, but he always considered them very attractive. Of course Daenerys has them, she is a goddess in his eyes after all, more stunning than the features namesake could have ever been.

And then it is as if time slows, her hands traveling down to the waistband of her panties. _Oh Gods!_ Jorah swears he feels his heart stop, his hand moving to his chest to double check. No, it’s still beating, albeit fast. But then the glorious garment is gone and Jorah sways on his feet, his hand darting out to the doorjamb to catch himself. A mistake. It creaks and he slams his eyes shut. _Shite!_ He knows now he is a dead man; Daenerys will never forgive him for spying on her like this. He doesn’t dare open his eyes, he thinks if he keeps them closed then she won’t notice him standing there, won’t see the tight set of his jaw, the tension in his frame. If he stands perfectly still, he will be nothing more than a shadow.

“Jorah.”

Her whisper is like a shout in the silence and his heart sinks, she knows and sees him there. And he can no longer put off the inevitable. He slowly opens his eyes to find her standing there, facing him, but it is her face that has his brows drawing together in confusion. There is no anger, no embarrassment. Her stance is tall and proud, nearly regal. And he can’t believe it. He had expected a fury like none he had ever seen, but it is quite the opposite. And he is floored yet again as desire begins to appear in her gaze.

“Come in, Jorah.”

_What?! _It isn’t until she repeats herself that he finally regains the faculty of his limbs, and with a shaky hand, pushes open the door and takes one step into her room. The air is heavy and charged with that familiar electricity that always exists when they are close. It takes all of the strength in him to keep his eyes trained on her face, in his mind, he has already disrespected her once, he can’t do it again. But her gaze roams over him freely, as sure as a touch, before it stops at the fly of his trousers. The subtle arch of one eyebrow followed by a sigh, then, “Take off your jacket, shirt, and tie.”

He swallows roughly, this can’t actually be happening. She wants him to undress, well, at least some of his clothes and the look on her face says she doesn’t want to be kept waiting. So he carries out her order, hearing her sharp intake of breath when he draws his neckwear free of his collar, watching the way her bottom lip takes up residence between her teeth as his shirt falls to the floor, his chest bared to her hungry eyes. She’s watching him breath, a bit faster than usual, her hands rising to gather up her hair before her head tilts back just a bit, then she lets it fall, her fingers skimming the curve of her neck and across her chest until she is cupping her breasts. She pushes into the touch, “I love the way you touch my breasts, Jorah. See how hard you’ve made my nipples.”

He gulps, the previous guilt he felt for watching her disappears and desire thrums through his veins once more. She toys with the little peaks, pinching them gently, rolling them, kneading the fullness beneath them. They’re beautiful and he aches to take the dusky berries in his mouth, to taste and tease her flesh. Her hands move lower, down her womanly belly to the top of curls, brushing them, then drawing back. “Don’t tease, Jorah. I want you to feel how wet you’ve made me.”

He feels like he can’t breathe, his cock aching for any kind of stimulation. His hand drops down and he palms himself through his slacks, an involuntary groan breaking the silence. He sees the corner of Daenerys’ lips quirk just before her head lulls back as if she is leaning against an imaginary version of him, using his strong body for support. Her digits drop down between her legs and she makes the softest moan he’s ever heard. Jorah’s mouth is like the desert, his eyes taking in the beauty of her naked form. Gentle curves in all the right places, but there is lean strength there too. And then gods, the neat patch of silver curls at the apex of her thighs. She stays there a few moments, knowing he is looking his fill, before she moves to sit on her vanity, one foot lifting onto the tabletop beside her. She lets her leg drop open a bit more, exposing her sex to him. He is sure she can hear how he can’t conceal his breathing anymore, how it’s turned heavy, the sound surely arousing her further. She trails her hands down her body, not moving in any sort of rush, torturing him just enough. She threads her fingers through her curls again, no doubt feeling what he can already see, how damp with her slick dew they are, before continuing on to her lips and entrance. She’s soaked, her intimate flesh surely sensitized and aching. She dips two digits into her wetness once, then twice, arching and whimpering at the bolts of pleasure it likely sends up her spine. “I love your fingers inside me. You know just how to touch me.”

He can’t help his moan as she drags them up to her clit and circles it once, her body quivering, another soft moan breaking free. He echoes her and clearly she’s had enough of this game. She lifts her hand and beckons him to her with a single curl of her glistening digits. She has barely finished before he striding toward her, chest heaving, his eyes alight with fire. She’s never seen him like this and her being quakes at the lust radiating from his tall, broad body. He doesn’t say a word as he steps between her legs and stops. She’s confused at first, but then she realizes he’s waiting for permission. Even now, with his slacks tented with his rather obvious arousal, he needs her to allow him to touch her.

“I need you, Jorah.”

And then it is like a dam breaks, his hands seemingly everywhere at once, his lips crashing into hers. The kiss is hungry, desirous, and full of pent-up yearning. Her hands tear at his belt, pulling at the button and dragging down the zipper. She reaches inside his boxer briefs to stroke his velvety shaft, moaning at how thick and hot it is, pulsing with each pound of his heart. She lets him go long enough to pull his undergarments down until he’s free, then she’s grasping him again, guiding him to her wetness. Using that hot slickness, she teases her clit in tight circles with the crown, moving her hips in counter point. She breaks the kiss, panting, working herself toward her release.

Jorah stops her hand, “Not like that. Let me taste you.”

He doesn’t wait for her to answer; he just drops to his knees and latches his mouth onto her clit. He seems to know that she doesn’t need it slow, his tongue tormenting her little pearl with quick, hard flicks. Her legs are shaking, her moans of pleasure loud and higher pitched than his huskier ones. He’s thoroughly enjoying himself, a finger joining in, thrusting in rhythm with his tongue. Her orgasm rises and crests so fast she can’t make a sound, her body seizing into an arc, her thighs tight against his head. Her honey oozes from her pulsing sex and Jorah gathers every sweet drop before sucking his finger clean. He stands and Daenerys is reaching for him, bringing him to her entrance.

“Take me,” she purrs, fisting her hand in his hair and pulling him to her for a passionate kiss, tasting herself in his mouth. He thrusts to the hilt on one plunge, pausing to stem the tide of his own release. He’s already so close, her tight slick heat nearly has him undone. But it appears Daenerys wants it hard and fast, her hips trying to get his started. So he gives in to her, bracing his hands on the tabletop so the crooks of her knees rest on his arms, his hips pumping with the pace she desires. Skin slaps against skin, the vanity shakes and rattles against the wall, his belt buckle clanks against the wood, panted breaths in synchronization. Her face is stunning in the throes of passion, sweat dotting her brow, her eyelids fluttering, her jaw slack, the sweetest sounds falling from her lips. Then he looks down and lets out a low curse, his cock is coated with her, her sex stretched around his girth. He looks up to find her looking down too, her expression one of awe, her fingers moving to her pearl to make herself come. She meets his eyes and he can hold back no more, her walls begin to throb and his cock does in answer, her name uttered in a shaky, breathless voice.

Jorah’s eyes snap open and Daenerys is gone, a panted curse falling from his lips. He’s alone, in his room, lying amongst the rumpled sheets. His clothes and shoes are scattered across the floor leading to the bed, his hand still gripping his softening manhood. _This has to stop_, he thinks, he can’t keep thinking about her that way, disrespecting her, not to mention, touching himself at the same time. He reaches to the nightstand and grabs some tissues, wiping away the evidence of his release with disgust, then tossing them in the bin. He rises and walks to the bathroom, turning on the shower. He catches his reflection in the mirror, then his eyes glance away. How can he look at himself when only moments ago he was using Daenerys in his mind to…he can’t even bring himself to even think the word for what he had been doing. It sullies her. He heaves a sigh and pulls back the curtain, stepping under the spray, letting it wash away his thoughts.


End file.
